


Looking Through a Glass Onion

by the_last_dillards



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Bad Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mirror Universe, Pining, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:40:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25224034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_last_dillards/pseuds/the_last_dillards
Summary: The crew of the mirror universe’s Defiant is stuck on Deep Space Nine for a few days. Garak entertains the wayward Captain Bashir.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Mirror Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 156
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mirror universe is my guilty pleasure :) Not beta'd.
> 
> Prefic warning that this isn't the softest of stories. Nothing extremely awful happens in it but mirrorverse happenings are alluded to and mirror Bashir is a real piece of work. He's meant to be easily dislikable and as such, says and does awful things. None of these reflect the views of the author.

It began with an unexpected visit from Doctor Bashir to his shop.

“Ah, my dear doctor! I wasn’t expecting you at this time of day. Let me get that sample I promised you from the back.”

Garak set aside what he’d been working on and made to stand, only to be stopped by Julian’s hand on his arm. The contact only lasted for the briefest of seconds but the warmth of it seeped through Garak’s shirt and lingered on into his skin.

“Actually, Garak, I was just stopping by.” 

“Oh?” Garak settled back down and picked up the dress he’d been embroidering. No reason that he couldn’t talk and work at the same time. 

Julian continued, “You might’ve already heard but I thought I should warn you; You might see some doubles of the crew, including me, walking around today.”

Garak couldn’t help but to smile at this. The absurdities that took place on Deep Space Nine sometimes. These things never seemed to happen on the old Terok Nor.

He’d already been informed of the occurrence by Morn earlier that morning. The Lurian had come in to pick up the pants he’d dropped off for repair and, as with any encounter with Morn, it had stretched on and on as he relayed every fresh bit of station gossip. He was one of Garak’s most useful sources of intel on the station.

In particular, Morn had witnessed two Jadzias walking arm in arm on the promenade, one being very familiar and the other with a severe haircut and worn out civvies. He’d also seen a ratty looking version of Julian stalking around near the infirmary. 

“Another day in the life of a Federation space station?”

Julian smiled back at him, in his usual charming way. “Something like that. You remember that mirror universe I got transported to with Kira a few years back?”

“Now, how could I forget a story like that?”

“Well, they’re from there. Though, things have changed a bit since I last was. Terrans are rising up against the Alliance. This group is one of the rebel cells. But they had an accident that caused their entire ship to be transported into our universe. We can get them back but the ship’s a mess. It needs repairs before it can do anything like universe jumping, so they’ll be hanging around for a few days.”

Here, Julian turned serious. The smile dropped from his face and he made a point to have Garak’s full attention before he continued.

“Garak, I need to warn you, they may look a bit like us—me, Miles, Jadzia, and a few others—but they’re very different people who’ve had very different lives. Honestly, I’d avoid them if I were you. They’re not going to have a very fond view of Cardassians.”

It seemed that was a popular theme, people not liking him because he was Cardassian. Garak smiled bitterly. “If I recall correctly, the Bajorans were also part of this Alliance. Major Kira herself was in charge of running the station.”

“Yes,” Julian allowed, “but the Bajorans of our universe have a lot more in common with the Terrans of theirs. They’ll be able to sympathize. Whereas Cardassians have played a similar role on this station in both.”

“Is that so?” Garak set down his embroidery. “I was under the impression that Cardassians, Bajorans, Klingons, and half the quadrant all used to be slaves and occupied peoples under the crushing foot of the Terran Empire. Some might say they got what was coming to them. If the Bajorans of our universe were aware of what the Terrans of that one had once done to their beloved planet—”

“Garak, I really don’t have time for this. I need to be getting back to the infirmary. I just wanted to make sure you knew. Maybe avoid Quark’s for a few days.”

And there he'd done it. Here Julian was, being kind to him, taking him into consideration, and yet Garak had gone off, upset over some theoretical fate of his people in another universe and implying that Julian's people deserved theirs. It was no wonder he’d never be more than an occasional lunch companion in the doctor’s eyes. 

Garak softened and said, “I’ll take that under advisement. Thank you, doctor, for thinking to give me notice.”

“Any time.”

* * *

It was in Quark’s that Garak found Bashir.

Or rather Captain Julian Bashir, as Morn had called him. Garak had made a beeline to the Lurian as soon as he walked through the door. 

According to Morn, Bashir had spent most of the day in the bar. For the first while, he’d taken a few spins at the Dabo tables, losing almost all of what spending money the Federation had granted him, before growing bored (and too poor to wager anything more) and taking to harassing the Dabo girls. Mostly that had consisted of rude innuendo and propositions, but it had gotten to the point that even Quark felt a need to get involved, threatening Bashir to find something else to do or else leave.

Bashir had been banished to the upper level ever since. He sipped at his drink alone, openly ogling the women that passed by.

Garak bid Morn goodbye and went to the second level. He made his approach from behind, circling in to Bashir’s side just as he’d done to Julian years ago. The fun of it was seeing whether the result would be the same. 

Oh, how he’d enjoyed Julian’s floundering and embarrassed excitement of those first few years.

“It’s Captain Bashir isn’t it? Of course it is. May I introduce myself?”

Bashir barely looked his way, eyes focused on a woman a few tables away.

“Get out of here, spoonhead.”

It wasn’t quite the greeting he’d been hoping for. But it wasn’t unexpected either considering the circumstances and the reputation Bashir was quickly gaining for himself here.

Garak continued anyway. “My name is Garak. Cardassian by birth, obviously.”

Bashir sneered up at him. “And here I thought you were Kelpien. Ironic though, isn’t it? How some of us end up in the same place no matter what? You, Kira, Sisko, Smiley? Of course, there’s lucky me. Little bleeding heart Doctor Bashir.”

A waft of stale, putrid breath hit Garak’s nostrils as he spoke. There was a general stench about Bashir, actually; underpinnings of sweat that had gone sour, accented with a complicated mix of scents, all foul and rotten. It was enough to make Garak reconsider what he’d come here to do.

But his curiosity drove him on. First impressions weren’t everything. After all, Julian had turned out to be much more than the stuttering, blushing young man he’d first laid eyes on in the replimat. 

How much of Julian was nurture and how much was nature? There had to be scraps of him in there somewhere, and Garak was determined to find them.

Garak invited himself to sit down across from Bashir. “Quite ironic indeed. Unfortunately for any other Cardassians you might be familiar with, I am the only one of my kind left here on this station, so I do appreciate making new friends whenever I can.”

“Pfft. Go make friends somewhere else. I’m not interested in playing kotra or whatever it is.”

This wasn’t going well. 

Should he push harder? No doubt he’d elicit some wonderfully impassioned words. And very likely, Garak would end up in the infirmary. Or one or both of them would end up in a holding cell. If they had more time before Bashir’s departure, maybe he’d try it. It _did_ sound like an intriguing encounter to be had.

But as it was, getting himself in trouble with Julian and having alone time with Bashir made solely inaccessible was probably not the best course of action.

Still, Garak could plant a seed before he left. “I see. Well if you grow bored of sitting alone in dark corners, I have a clothing shop nearby. So should you require any new apparel, or merely wish, as I do, for a bit of enjoyable company every now and then, I'm happy to provide for such an intriguing guest to the station.”

He decided to take a chance. 

Trying to touch Bashir in the same way that he had with Julian all those years ago would probably get him thrown over a table, but Cardassians had an entire dictionary of nonverbal cues at their disposal.

Garak tilted his head back and ran two lazy fingers along his clavicle. A clear sign among Cardassians of a proposition. If Bashir didn’t understand, no harm done. If he did, well, the consequences were yet to be seen.

Bashir lolled his head back in a half circle, cracking his neck, and gazed assessingly at Garak. He gave a short sharp laugh, an ugly thing. 

Garak had the feeling he’d lost his gamble.

Bashir dragged his gaze up and down Garak’s figure before twitching up a disdainful lip. “Oh, why the hell not.”

* * *

The bed rattled with every thrust. 

Bashir had Garak pinned on his front, forearm pressing down hard between his shoulder blades to keep him there. 

Not that Garak was planning on escaping. 

Bashir was merciless. His thrusts were rough and wild, no consideration given whatsoever to who was under him. 

In some ways, Garak was thankful. The aggression of it was something he could never attribute to dear Julian. It may have been his body but there was no mistaking who this man wasn’t.

Garak gripped the bed sheets tight with both hands and gritted his teeth against the onslaught.

He hadn’t even had time to evert before Bashir had ungracefully shoved himself in. The pressure of it was intense. Not strictly painful, per say, but not pleasurable either. Simply mind numbing. Consuming.

Normally, a Cardassian would either have had their own orgasm first or held a hand over the tendon which controlled eversion before being penetrated, but Garak was given time for neither. 

His prUt desperately wanted out, but there was no room for it with Bashir in the way.

Bashir panted hot against the back of his neck. Every so often, he would grunt along with it, testicles slapping against Garak’s behind with every thrust. Not the most dignified encounter that he'd ever had.

And that wasn’t even including Bashir’s lingering stench. It had dissipated some when he’d stripped out of his clothes, but it still clouded around them. Garak could only be glad Bashir hadn’t made any kind of move to kiss him, preferring instead to get right down to business by shoving him onto the bed.

Soon Bashir’s breaths became reedy and strained. He shuddered on his last few thrusts before stilling and pulling out with a rude sound, flopping off to the side.

Garak was abandoned to finish himself off alone. 

He rolled onto his side, everting almost immediately, excess fluids flooding out and covering him in a disgusting sticky feeling.

Bashir stretched his arms over his head and eyed him with an apathetic boredom.

Garak ignored him, instead admiring the body next to him as he stroked himself, putting efficiency over prolonged pleasure.

It was strange how two people could grow from the same seed and end up so similar but yet so fundamentally different.

This man was clearly Julian Bashir. Besides the name, he had the same face and body. 

(Though, Garak knew logically, with all the thousands of factors that determined one’s visage, it would make more sense for this counterpart to look more like a brother.)

Although, this Bashir looked more like a Julian Bashir who had been stranded alone on a deserted planet for a year with minimal resources. He was lean and cut in a way Julian wasn’t, substantially furrier with stubble and a wild unkempt mane on his head, and had scars of all kinds littered across his body.

And yet, there was still so much of Julian there. 

Garak tried to pretend that this was him. That after a mission gone wrong, his dear doctor had returned home, a desperate longing for his company gone long unfulfilled, and they'd consummated whatever it was they'd decided to be to each other. 

As he came, he knew it was a lie.

Garak got up immediately and made for the fresher. 

This had been a bad idea. Reckless. 

No doubt Julian would be upset if he found out.

He showered thoroughly to cleanse himself of Bashir’s stink and to clean out the rest of the spunk Bashir had so graciously left him with. 

Normally, he wasn’t fond of leaving people in his quarters unattended. But as he always did with a fling, Garak had taken special care to make sure any sensitive data was properly hidden and secured. Not that Bashir would likely know what to do with most of what he might find. But there was always a risk.

If he was lucky, Bashir would bolt as soon as the fresher door shut. It was a common theme among the lovers Garak managed to pick up. And one, frankly, he was thankful for. So called ‘pillowtalk’ and awkward goodbyes had never been among his skill set where information gathering was not the goal.

But it seemed Garak was not that lucky. Bashir still lounged comfortably in Garak’s bed when he returned, content to let his rank scent settle into the sheets even further.

He smiled smugly at Garak as the robe clad Cardassian passed him by to ruffle through a drawer for fresh clothes.

Bashir called over, “Not the worst cunt I’ve had.”

Garak rolled his eyes but didn’t bother turning. “Oh, why _thank you_ for the positive review. I’ll be sure to pass it on.”

“I’m just trying to give you a compliment. You don’t need to be sarcastic about it.”

“I’m sure.”

There were a few moments of silence.

But they couldn’t even have that as Bashir filled it. “So, that doctor, my double from this universe. You’re friends?”

Garak considered his clothing options. It was late enough in the evening that he would like to head to bed soon, but would putting on pajamas seem like too much of an invitation for Bashir to stay the night? He didn’t fancy putting back on what he’d been wearing earlier either after Bashir had had his mitts all over it. But if he took out a fresh day outfit, then that would be one less clean set of clothes in his drawers, and they did all require special cleaning.

“Where ever did you get that idea?” Garak answered. He settled on pajamas and pulled a set out.

“Why else go sniffing around for me? I saw you talking to that Lurian. Him pointing my way. Now, I know I’m a bit of a sex magnet but I’m definitely not the hottest guy that came over from my side today. Unless Tuvok already turned you down.” 

Garak turned around and made his way back to the fresher to change, ignoring him.

Bashir continued his thought after Garak deigned not to give him a reaction. “And since I have a double here, you’re probably friends.”

“Some might call it that.” Garak shut the door behind him.

“Oh, I get it. You want _him_ to fuck you, but he’s too good to get down with yesterday’s leftovers, huh? Well, you got yourself a taste today. Maybe I can do you a favor and let him know what a half-decent fuck you are for if he ever gets desperate for a hole.” 

Silence rang in the room. Garak dressed, thinking of all the mysterious accidents an overly belligerent Terran might meet on an unfamiliar space station.

Bashir must’ve gotten up from the bed in the meantime because he next called through the door, “You’re pretty pathetic, y’know that?”

Garak opened it, standing in the door frame so they were face to face. “Is there a reason you’re still here, Captain Bashir?”

“What? Not putting out again for the night?” Bashir had put on his pants, wearing them unfastened. He set his hands on his hips and curled a lip. 

Garak pushed him out of the way with a hand on his chest. “You smell. You are disrespectful. And I have already washed up for the night. We are done.”

“Fair enough,” Bashir shrugged. 

He gathered up the rest of his clothes as Garak pulled the sheets off his bed to replace them. Once he was dressed, he hovered at the door to Garak’s quarters. “Oh, and Garak?” 

The name sounded strange on this Bashir’s tongue. Less rounded on the ‘ah’ sounds and too much force on the ‘k’.

“Like I said, not the worst cunt I’ve had.” 

The bastard had the audacity to wink before slipping out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a reference to The Beatles' song of the same name.
> 
> I try to make it clear which Julian Bashir I’m referring to through context, but to be clear: any variation of Doctor Bashir or Julian refers to the Julian we all know and love. Any variation of Captain Bashir or Bashir refers to the mirror universe counterpart. Please, let me know if there's ever any points of confusion in the story!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you guys think! Kudos and comments are love!


	2. Chapter 2

“Ah, doctor! I almost thought you might not be joining me today.”

Garak sent a teasing smile his way as Julian sat down at the replimat table with a clack of his tray.

Julian returned the smile with a fond one of his own. “And miss the chance to tell you how much I hate Cernun’s poetry? Never.”

A warmth filled Garak’s chest.

It was moments like these that he lived for. That fed his so-called soul and kept him going day after day. The teasing, the flirting, the arguing. Every second spent in Julian’s company was more precious than latinum.

Indeed, last night had been a mistake.

A potential risk to his continuing association with Julian Bashir, and for what? To confirm that what Garak wanted was more than his body? 

He would never have started having lunch with Julian in the first place if he wasn’t already well aware of his infatuation with the doctor’s mind. 

Garak had hoped that there might be something of Julian in the ratty man he’d allowed into his bed but if there ever had been, it had been long scrubbed away by a life of brutality. He should’ve seen it from the get-go, from that first conversation.

And now he was left with nothing but pain, embarrassment, and the fear that Julian might find out for his recklessness.

Garak had woken that morning alone and in a foul mood, ajan throbbing and raw to complement the scene. He kept a dermal regenerator tucked away in his quarters for emergency use and had pulled it out, spending a great deal of time holding himself open and trying his best to repair what he could. In the end, there was still an ache but moving and sitting were no longer quite so torturous.

In exchange, he was left with a headache and the intense desire to curl up back into bed. 

The dermal regenerator was a miracle of modern medicine to be sure. But while it supplied some of the energy for the body to heal, it still forced the body to reallocate a number of its resources. It affected everyone differently, and Garak found that with him, he was left with a pounding behind his temples and a bone deep weariness.

He'd almost gone to the bedside drawer to grab a few of his headache pills before he remembered. 

Bashir, that delinquent, had gone through his items last night while he’d been washing.

Garak had expected it to some extent, yes, and nothing very important had been taken but it was the principal of the thing. The disrespect of the action and how sloppily careless the act had been done. Clearly, Bashir didn’t care whether or not Garak knew he’d taken things. 

And now Garak was down a box of Delavian chocolates and his headache medication. Two more dwindling sources of joy stolen from him.

After spending a rather long time in the bathroom relieving himself and getting ready, Garak had headed out to his shop with a thundercloud over his head, forced to face yet another hellish day on the cold station.

The morning had mostly been quiet, mercifully.

There were a few item pick ups and drop offs here and there, but the encounters were all short lived and put money in his pockets.

At one point, he’d noted the O’Briens and their daughter strolling past. Only when the Chief glanced up at his shop, Garak realized it wasn’t him at all. It was his double, the general sunkenness and grim expression on his face giving it away. They made eye contact and O’Brien quickly looked away. A curious thing.

Most of his time had been spent simultaneously dreading and longing for his weekly lunch with Julian. There was a nagging fear that the doctor would somehow know what he’d done and condemn him for it.

But that worry had proven itself for naught as that had obviously turned out not to be the case. 

Garak pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m shocked, doctor! I gave you Cernun’s work thinking that you would be able to appreciate his celebration of other cultures and species. You’re always complaining that the literature I usually give you takes a xenophobic stance.”

Julian gave him a disbelieving look. “You knew perfectly well what I’d think, Garak. Sure, it wasn’t as bad as _Twelve Suns and the Archon_ —and saying that all nonCardassians must be unsentient or else we’d all either be exactly like Cardassia ourselves or want to serve her has to top my list of awful—but it’s all just lauding Cardassian values in other cultures.”

“You can’t tell me your people wouldn’t do the same.” He held up a hand as Julian opened his mouth to object. 

Once he saw that Julian was going to let him elaborate, he gestured with it. “If you saw a foreign people that gave everyone in their society the things they needed to flourish for the simple fact of being alive, then you would no doubt hold that up in high regard and use it to embellish them to your peers.

Garak brought up his other hand to show contradiction.

“And if that same people also had practices you didn’t understand or found amoral according to your customs, such as, say, involuntary blood sacrifices to their deity, you wouldn’t hold that aspect of them in high regard. Cernun celebrates the good he sees in other peoples.”

“But he doesn’t do it with any measure of thought for how the people he talks about perceives those things. I mean, good god, he makes the Eugenics Wars seem like a good thing! I don’t care if he thinks it was a chance for us to grow ourselves or whatever. A lot of people died and suffered. Entire cultures were wiped from existence.”

“Was it not ultimately for the best though?”

Julian gave him a look.

Garak raised his hands placatingly. “All I mean to say is that the Federation could never have existed without it. Why, perhaps that’s what was different between this universe and the other. By having your global societies torn apart, they were given a chance to regrow in unity. Without the war, the various empires of the time would have kept growing, eventually making it out beyond their system to conquer other peoples.”

But instead of continuing their verbal spar by going off on a tirade that Garak could rebuff, Julian seemed to shut down and mentally pull away from him. He picked up his spoon and spun it around his soup without eating any.

“I don’t want to talk about the Terran Empire or the other universe right now, Garak. Please. Can we just talk about Cernun?”

And that was curious. When he’d brought the topic up yesterday, Garak had thought perhaps Julian had been annoyed over Garak’s implications that the Terrans deserved their fate. That he’d been thoughtless and perhaps even tactless when Julian himself had spent time working and suffering among them on the other side. 

Julian was a compassionate man after all.

But maybe it was something else, the mention of this Terran Empire, that caused such a reaction in him. Garak would need to find a way to examine this topic more later.

He nodded his assent. “Of course, doctor. Please, give me another one of your misguided interpretations.”

Back in his comfort zone, Julian relaxed and leaned in as if sharing a secret. “You know what I think? Cernun was hiding something in his poetry. A forbidden desire that he couldn’t outright share with the world and so he disguised it as worship of the State.” 

Forbidden desires indeed. 

“Let me guess. A secret desire to be something other than Cardassian?”

“Cernun was a closet xenophile.”

“Perish the thought!” 

Garak leaned back as if aghast. Inside, he was thrilled at the turn this had taken. Forbidden longings was one of his favorite topics of conversation to take with Julian. The innuendo and implication he could spin around him, accidental brushes of their feet under the table and hands placed ever so slightly too close atop the table as they parried and flirted.

“No, I mean it! Look at the word choice. It’s all so very physical in nature. He brings up body parts constantly and uses descriptive words that could double as talking about physical sensations. I mean, the way he talks about Andorian antennae...It’s almost phallic in nature.”

“You must be projecting, my dear doctor. After all, you’ve made no secret of your own xenophilic tendencies. Tell me, do you find Andorian antennae to be phallic?” Garak stroked up the length of his tall glass as he spoke and Julian’s eyes followed. 

Julian met Garak’s gaze with hooded eyes and a smirk.

There had been a time, years ago, when Garak had thought he’d have Julian in his bed by the end of the week. 

All the signs had pointed to it. Julian’s glances and flustering. The way he constantly sought out Garak’s company. And when Garak had offhandedly mentioned a book during a chance meeting at Quark’s, Julian had found a copy on his own and devoured it almost immediately, bringing it up at their next encounter and subsequently beginning their long tradition of lunches.

But somehow it had never happened.

There was always some massive catastrophe happening on the station or Garak’s own business needed to be dealt with. By the time the incident involving the wire occurred, nothing had ever happened between them. 

And after it, Garak understood that it never could. 

Julian was too kind, too good, too caring whereas Garak was too cold, too calculating, too self-serving.

Besides, attachment to a man like him would only lead to a painful death for someone like Julian. And that was one thing he could never allow to come to pass.

But the curiosity and what-ifs haunted him. Julian was a handsome man and warm, both physically and in temperament. Garak dreamed of what it might be like to lay in those arms, to touch that body in longer than fleeting moments and ways that weren’t innocent enough to be masked as friendly.

There were so many questions he still had about Julian Bashir, even after five years. Questions that could only be answered by intimacy of the physical and emotional kinds.

And that was what had led Garak to make his mistake, the biggest perhaps since his entanglement with Paladine. One that had the potential to end his one real friendship and place of sanctuary on this cold station.

But speak of the devil and he shall appear, or so the human phrase went.

Captain Bashir had just walked into the replimat. He glanced about casually before spotting their table and immediately making his way over.

Garak’s heart felt as if it had suddenly turned to stone. His pulse went leaden and thick as he watched Bashir waltz over, seemingly in slow motion. 

Julian furrowed his brow as he saw Garak freeze up and turned around to look.

“Ah, the impeccable Doctor Bashir! How might your day be going, good chap?” Bashir’s voice was loud, too loud, and falsely jovial. It drew gazes their way.

Julian let go of his spoon, letting it sit on the edge of the bowl. “It had been going just fine, thank you.”

Bashir grabbed a chair from a nearby table and slid it over with a screech, turning it around at the last second so he could straddle it backwards. He still wore the same ratty clothes as the night before, and a waft of his stench reached Garak’s nose. Even with all the clashing scents that were normally indistinguishable from each other in hubbub of the replimat, Garak could make out that Bashir’s, now changed ever so slightly to include a stale scent of sex.

“Mm, yeah, food here isn’t too great, is it? Of course, tastes better than where I’m from. Only edible thing from our replicator is yamok sauce and graniss. Gets old quick.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Julian deadpanned.

Garak’s eyes darted between the two. He hoped he came off as merely curious about how this interaction was playing out and not as anxious as he felt.

He _was_ curious. Julian had turned uncharacteristically cold and distant as soon as Bashir had made his presence known.

But he was also panicking. Bashir’s presence couldn’t mean anything good. 

“That’s life for you. Fucks you in the ass. Seems like you have a pretty nice gig going on though. Fancy title, warm quarters, a different girl in your bed every other week. I’ve already worked through the all ones on my side, and let me tell you, they don’t get switched out nearly as often as the ones here seem to.”

Julian smiled tightly. “Well, I’m sure that’s disappointing for the women where you’re from. Honestly, I spend most of my time treating people and doing research. Just today I sent in a paper for review on the effects of graviton particle exposure on the spread of—”

“Yeah, I really don’t care. But, doctor, maybe there is one question you could answer for me.”

“I can try.”

“Do you know this Cardie?”

Garak sputtered, _“Excuse me?”_

Julian looked equally affronted and opened his mouth to say something, but Bashir continued right on over him, “The fat one here, stuffing his face with larish pie. I know him.” Bashir shot him a smug look and dread weighed heavy in Garak’s stomach. “On my side, he was the Intendant’s right hand. Sadistic bastard, got off on torturing people.”

Julian glared. “Yes, I met him once. But I think we all know that what one might be like in one universe has no bearing on what they may be like in another.”

Bashir gave a raucous laugh. “You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. See, I just thought I’d give you a little warning about spoonie here.”

“Well, your concern has been duly noted—”

“No, I haven’t gotten to it yet.” 

Bashir folded his hands over the back of his chair and put on a serious face. “You do know he just wants to fuck you with that slimy lizard prick of his, right?”

Garak’s heart stopped. It was over. Julian was going to find out and then it all would be over.

“And what ever in the world gives you that idea?” Julian said tightly.

“He’s a Cardassian, you fucking coddlebrain. That’s all they ever want to do. Sad though, isn’t it?” Bashir gave Garak a faux sympathetic glance. “He probably thinks he’s got a chance.”

“Of all the impertinence!” Julian stood out of his chair, towering over Bashir. “The hell do you think gives you the right to go around saying things like that?” 

“I’m just stating facts, darling,” Bashir sneered. “There’s no need to get all worked up.”

“Garak is my friend. And that’s all you need to know. You need to leave right now, or I’m calling security and you can spend the rest of your stay here in a holding cell.”

Bashir raised his hands in mock innocence. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

He stood up and kicked the chair behind him. 

“Just don’t be surprised when you’re alone in some dark corridor together and he makes a crotch grab.” And with that, Bashir made to leave.

Julian sat back down and picked up his spoon, visibly fuming.

But rather than take the A-to-B path to the door, Bashir made a circle around their table on his way out. He reached out as he passed and grabbed one of Garak’s shoulder ridges _hard_ , causing him to jolt and wince, and then continued on his way as if nothing had happened, smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.

Julian bolted out of his seat. “The nerve—!” 

But when he turned to follow, Bashir was already gone. He’d disappeared into the crowd entering the replimat. 

Julian sat back down and sighed, running a hand through his hair. The tension left his body, leaving him in a slump. “Look, I’m sorry about that, Garak.” 

Garak felt strange, as if he were floating in a haze, as the adrenaline of the moment wound down.

“There’s no need to apologize, doctor.”

Julian rubbed a hand over his forehead. “The man’s an utter ass. I don’t know where he gets off on harassing people. I’m embarrassed to even share a name with him. You alright?”

“Right as rain, as they say.”

Julian furrowed his brow. “You’re sure? You seem a bit off.”

“I'm just processing that a man who claimed to share any sort of inheritance with you could turn out so incredibly rude. It's not polite to make comments about one’s weight, you know.” Garak patted his stomach for emphasis.

Julian's eyes followed his hand. Then he looked up, giving him an earnest look. “For the record, I think you're perfect just the way you are.”

Garak was at a loss. He had been trying to veer the conversation away from Bashir by getting Julian into doctor mode with talk about exercise and diet. He hadn't expected such a candid response.

He tried another angle, leaning in and putting on a leer. “Careful, my dear, you might provoke my Cardassian indecencies.”

It had just the effect he hoped. Julian's face spread into a grin. “Oh no, now what ever would I do if I did that? I do hope you wouldn’t grab your poor, unsuspecting doctor in some lonely corridor.”

“And what would you do about it if I did?”

“Well, for one thing—”

Julian’s combadge chirped. 

"Jabara to Bashir."

Julian tapped it. "Bashir here."

"We've got a patient that just came in with a re-infection. You know the one."

Julian made an ever suffering face.

"Of course. I'm on my way."

He tapped it again to close the line and then looked guiltily at his lunch companion.

“I’m really sorry, Garak.”

Garak swept a hand as if brushing it aside. “Think nothing of it. Duty calls.”

Julian opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more but closed it and gave him a gentle smile. “I’ll see you next week.”

Garak nodded, and then Julian was off with his tray.

He remained at the table for another few minutes, stabbing at his meal but not eating.

That had been too close a call for comfort. 

What was Bashir’s game here? 

For all of his improprieties and disdain, Bashir had only edged around the topic. Teasing and hinting at the truth but never actually saying what he and Garak both knew.

What was the point?

To blackmail Garak into doing his bidding? Surely an exiled tailor couldn’t be of much use to a rebel from another universe. Especially when to his knowledge, Bashir had no idea of his past. And even if he did, Bashir would be gone in a few days anyways, contact forever cut off.

Or was this merely to torture him? Perhaps Bashir liked to play with his food before the final blow where he’d ruin what little solace Garak had for his own amusement. 

Either way, one thought echoed in Garak’s mind. 

Bashir _hadn’t_ told Julian. 

And that sat very wrong with him indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think I mentioned in the last chapter but this story takes place early season five-ish. It might be slightly anachronistic in places but for ref: Leeta and Julian have broken up, but Leeta’s not with Rom yet. Dukat is still cruising around on his Klingon ship. Ziyal is on the station. Garak is out of jail. Julian hasn’t been replaced and no one knows he’s an augment.
> 
> Graniss is a Cardassian veggie from ConceptaDecency's [Tennis Shorts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19346935) and [The Swindle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20019571). Check them out!
> 
> Updating for this is still going to be sporadic but I now have this thing plotted out! Currently, there’s thirteen chapters planned but that might grow. Ideally, I hope to put one out a month.


	3. Chapter 3

Garak made his way back to the shop in a hurry. The crowd of the replimat had quickly become overwhelming, his anxiety already flared from the close encounter with Bashir, and he fled without finishing his meal.

As he made his way along the Promenade, Garak kept expecting Bashir to somehow appear from out of the shadows to torment and jeer at him further.

But nothing happened.

When he finally reached the shop, he checked every nook and cranny.

Garak wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for. A recording device? A bomb? Instructions to follow with an _‘or else’_ pinned to the bottom? Someone lying in wait in a changing room?

It was all just his paranoia, of course. There was absolutely nothing and no one to be found. Still, he checked twice.

By the time he finished, his heart had begun to slow and his nerves eased. 

These were escaped Terran slaves from another universe. They had minimal resources and know-how and had no connections in this one. He was being ridiculous. 

If Bashir was going to try blackmailing him (and it was a big if), it would be for a new suit which Garak would gladly make. Really, there was no reason to continue wearing such an ugly deteriorating thing when the replicators _were_ at their guests’ disposal.

Garak pulled out a commission to work on. He managed to get half an hour of work in before the shop door chimed to announce a customer.

When he looked up, there before him was Lieutenant Dax and...Dax. 

The more familiar of the two, Jadzia in her Starfleet uniform, led the way with bright eyes and her usual upright posture. 

Behind her trailed the double, Dax. Unlike Bashir, she at least had replicated herself a new outfit. It was a generic civilian jumpsuit, the sort of which Garak loathed, but was a definite step up from the rags he knew they had arrived in.

There was something off about her. Where compared to their counterparts, Bashir was rowdy and the alternate O’Brien was fearful, she seemed intense. Perhaps even humorless when placed next to someone as vibrant as Jadzia. She carried herself differently as well, more rigid and closed in.

Garak set his work aside and greeted them with his usual salesman bluster. “Ladies, how delightful to have you both grace my shop! I just got in a new shipment of handknit Andorian wool socks today. I know you've expressed a fondness for them, Lieutenant. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

Dax continued to linger farther back as Jadzia went right up to the counter and leaned on it. “Hi, Garak! We’re in the market for some holosuite costumes.” 

Garak raised his eye ridges, pretending to be surprised. “Holosuite costumes? Anything in particular?”

He couldn’t help but feel a sliver of annoyance. It was more than a little short order to get costumes made when the doubles could be gone tomorrow. Not to mention the fact that Jadzia already had a massive collection of costumes for any occasion stored away.

“Something Klingon. We’re looking to reenact The Battle of the Howling Canyons.”

Behind her, Dax wasn’t looking particularly thrilled.

Garak tilted his head. “Ah, forgive me for my unfamiliarity with Klingon legends but isn’t that the one with the warrior twins?"

“Exactly the one. Fralark and Griselda, daughters of GharlH. Together, they take on insurmountable odds and try to conquer Nol’taQ’s cliff fortress.”

“Try?”

“Good day to die, I guess.” She shrugged.

Garak nodded, the appeal of a battle destined to be lost beyond him. It was something Julian seemed to enjoy as well.

“I see. Well, I’m afraid our guests won’t be here long enough for me to make something new, but if you’d like to take a look at the rack to your left, I have an assortment of Klingon inspired outfits that can be tailored as needed. If you don’t mind paying an expedition fee, I should be able to finish both in a couple of days.”

Jadzia beamed. “That would be great, Garak. Thank you.”

Garak let them browse, keeping himself busy by checking up on the status of his restock orders in the meantime. He kept a discreet eye on them all the while. Jadzia, he knew, was unlikely to take anything from the store without paying. But he wouldn’t be extending that same benefit of the doubt to her double. He’d already made that mistake once.

Dax looked bored as Jadzia went through outfit by outfit and explained each in pros and cons. Occasionally, she sneaked distrustful glances Garak's way.

“Is this really necessary? I can just wear what I am now,” Dax interrupted.

Jadzia took it gracefully. “It’ll be more fun this way. Trust me.”

Instead of answering, Dax sighed and uncrossed her arms to grab an outfit at random. Jadzia glanced over at it and picked out an identical one, slightly larger in size, and switched them out in Dax’s hands before grabbing the one that she’d clearly had her eye on from the start.

Garak made a show of looking up as they set their wares on the counter. “Excellent taste as always. Now, I already have your measurements Lieutenant, but for Ms Dax, we’ll need to—”

“No.”

Garak put on a simpering customer service smile, feeling another headache coming on. “You must understand, without your measurements I can’t tailor the garment to fit you properly.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going through measurements or fittings of any kind from you.” Dax glared from under her bangs, arms crossed defiantly over her chest.

The Lieutenant turned towards her, looking upset.

 _“Jadzia,”_ she scolded in a hushed voice.

Garak pushed the conversation on, not wanting a scene in his store. “I see. Well, I suppose I’ll just use the Lieutenant’s for you as well then.”

Dax didn’t answer but continued to glower at them both.

Jadzia turned back to him and smiled tightly. “That should be fine. Thanks, Garak.”

“I’ll notify you as usual when the items are ready for pick up.”

“Thanks again, Garak,” Jadzia repeated apologetically, almost rounding up her double to lead her out the door.

Garak nodded with a smile plastered onto his face and dropped it as soon as they were out of sight. 

These types of interactions weren’t uncommon for him, being the only Cardassian on a Bajoran space station, but somehow he now felt exhausted. The day seemed to be one misstep after another and all due to these visitors. But he supposed, at least now he had something to keep him suitably busy and hidden away until they were gone.

Garak set aside what he’d been working on and locked up the shop to take a quick walk around the Promenade. Along the way, he visited the replimat to order food so that he could eat his evening meal as he worked. Then, he began on the new order.

It was well past the station’s nightfall when he left again, having made significant headway on Jadzia’s piece. It wasn’t unusual for him to work late into the hours of the night, especially when he had an expedited order such as today’s. It wasn’t as if he had much worth returning to in his quarters after all.

The only sign of life left on the Promenade was Quark’s. The din that came from within was audible from a level away. 

Garak briefly considered visiting. His headache had only gotten worse since the Jadzias had left and a few drinks to help cloud the pain in the absence of medication was an alluring temptation. But then he heard wild laughter from inside and decided against it. The Terrans were probably there drinking, and Garak didn’t want to chance running into Bashir again.

If he was lucky, he would manage to avoid him for the rest of the Terrans’ stay.

Quark’s would be closing soon enough anyways. It was that late. He could just drink a poorly replicated bottle in his own quarters for what it was worth.

Garak boarded a turbolift and stepped out onto his level of the habitat ring. 

A distant clatter echoed through the corridors.

Garak stopped to listen. 

There was silence for several seconds and then another sound. Something like a muffled exclamation.

A part of him thought to ignore it. Strange sounds coming from dark corners on the station weren’t an uncommon occurrence and more than once, Garak had been an accidental witness to a late night lover’s rendezvous. (None of which had been worth any gossip for the sights he’d seen.)

But his Order training was deeply ingrained. It was best to investigate all avenues of potential intrigue, especially when the risk was so low and potential gain was so high. If he had to look at yet another Bajoran’s naked buttocks as a consequence, so be it.

Garak followed the noises. He made several turns through the halls, listening intently to what was ever more clearly not some innocent encounter in an out of the way corner.

“—just go around humping anything with a pulse. You really can’t keep it in your pants, huh? Well, you’ve really done it this time, Bashir. You know what happens to dogs that fuck the wrong bitch?”

Garak paused where he was, a surge of adrenaline rushing through his veins. Of course it would be just his luck that in attempting to avoid Bashir and his slew, he’d end up running into them.

The commotion was just around the corner from where he was, and Garak considered turning around and leaving before anyone knew he had ever been there.

A scoff and then a painfully familiar voice reached Garak’s ears. “What? They end up with puppies? If she’s knocked up, it certainly says something that you’re so sure they must be mine.”

There was a thud and a grunt.

Garak stayed where he was, a morbid curiosity in the scene playing out before him keeping him in place. Just what had Bashir done now? 

That he was guilty seemed a given. Most likely, it was something that had been coming to him for a long time. Bashir had made his bed and now he would lie in it, as dear Julian would say.

But Garak’s heart couldn’t help but to pound at the sounds of the beating just around the corner. It wasn’t the violence of it that disturbed him so much as the images his mind filled in of the who.

That first voice again. “I’ll fucking castrate you for this, Bashir.”

The situation was escalating, and the urge to act, to do _something_ itched under his skin. He really shouldn’t intervene, didn’t usually feel the need to in these sorts of situations. 

“I’d like to see you try.”

What was that Federation platitude again, about not getting involved in other’s affairs?

Garak stepped around the corner. “Excuse me, but are you gentlemen lost?”

The sight before him caused a momentary shock to run through his body.

There was Julian, face bloody and swollen, held to the floor by four Terrans.

No, not Julian. 

It was _Bashir._ Very definitely Bashir; blood dripping from his nose, face puffy and discolored, and chest heaving with each painful breath.

A fifth Terran stood over him with hateful eyes that were now turned on Garak.

“No, but you better get lost before we give you the traditional greeting for Cardies on our side,” the Terran spat his way.

Garak wasn’t intimidated. He was well aware that Odo had confiscated all the Terrans’ weapons immediately upon arrival. And they wouldn’t be getting them back any time soon. Anything they had on them now would be inconsequential at best.

He plastered on a smile and clasped his hands with a clap. “Curious the ways cultures can differ across realities. Now tell me, just what is the peculiar ritual that you’re performing on this young man here?”

The Terran gave another sneering glance Bashir’s way, before turning fully to Garak. He made a few swaggering steps towards him.

“You know, I don't believe we’ve introduced ourselves. You can call me Vandehey. Happy to be here.” 

He gave a wide, mocking bow.

Garak opened his mouth, ready to introduce himself along with a choice few lies, but was beaten to it.

“Oh, I know who you are, Mr Garak. Or at least, I know the other you. He’s a real monster but at least the Gul has dignity. Even gave me this.”

Vandehey lifted his threadbare shirt to reveal his stomach. The skin there was lumped over itself, stretched and twisted into an odd shape with shiny scars where it had healed poorly.

The Terran looked back up at him and gave a toothy smile. “I’ve passed your shop, you know. Your dresses are ugly as hell.”

A number of possible responses flitted through Garak's mind; critiques on this Gul Garak's sloppy work, offense at having the fruits of his labor insulted, fear as part of his benign tailor persona.

Instead, he settled on a neutral, “You may be interested to know, these Federation doctors are quite skilled at cosmetic surgeries.”

Vandehey barked out a laugh, letting the shirt drop, before a knife suddenly appeared in his hand. It was small and serrated, likely pick-pocketed off the Promenade.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kick your ass here and now in his place.” 

“If you’ve spent time on Terok Nor, then perhaps you’re familiar with Odo? Shapeshifters do have a love for order, and our local constabulary has a way of finding things out,” Garak tried, hoping the threat of an encounter with someone whose double had terrorized Terrans on the other side would put Vandehey off before Garak was forced to resort to less discreet means.

But Vandehey just shook his head and took another step towards him. Garak held his ground. 

“Oh? A little jail time, that’s all? You know, I hear the prison sentences here are nothing. Maybe ten years for a murder. Good food, a bed, even a little recreation to go with it. I wouldn’t mind being stuck there while dogs like Bashir get to go back.”

A sudden commotion broke out behind them. Bashir had broken free of his captors, kicking a leg out of one’s grasp and into their face before twisting and jerking free of the others. They tried to grab at him again but Garak already had his hidden phaser out (stolen from a Starfleet cache), switching the settings with a click and stunning one. The group froze, heads whipping to find the source of the blast as Bashir skirted to Garak’s side.

Vandehey’s upper lip lifted and twitched like a threatened animal. “What? Think that Cardie’s going to protect you?”

Bashir answered, the words slurred from the swelling, “Well, between the two of you, he’s not the one threatening to cut off my balls.”

“No, he’ll probably just make you his bitch instead.”

“Bold of you to assume that he’s not already mine.” Garak didn’t dare turn to look at him but could feel the rakish smile that had slid onto Bashir's face. The urge to kick him was strong.

“Oh, you think you’re _so_ clever with your little comebacks, don't you, freak? Think you're better than us?”

“Yes, I do actually. And so did Eliza.”

The situation was quickly looking like it was about to devolve into four against two, and Bashir wasn’t helping. Garak did have his phaser, but there were only so many he could aim and shoot for before he chanced being disarmed.

He readied himself to start shooting. His best chance would be to make the first move and catch them off guard.

What would happen next was anyone’s guess.

_“What in Gint’s name is going on over here?!”_

Quark appeared from down the other hall in crumpled pajamas, looking absolutely irate.

Vandehey sighed in exasperation. “Fucking Prophets.”

“Look, some of us are trying to sleep so we can be ready for a long day of profit-making tomorrow. Whatever it is going on here, break it up.”

There was a noticeable slow to his step as Quark reached them, eyeing the scene with apprehension.

“Leave, Quark. You don’t need to be a part of this.” Vandehey gestured with his weapon, keeping his focus on Garak as he spoke.

Quark's hands shot up into the air at the sight of a knife being waved around. “Woah, hey now. Do I know you?”

He squinted at the Terran and then darted a glance around at his compatriots, eyes lingering on the one stunned on the floor before spotting Bashir. He lowered his hands slightly.

“Oh, you're one of _those_ people. Should’ve known from the clothes." After a beat, he added, "What do you people use for money over there? It wouldn’t be latinum by any chance would it?”

There were some days that Garak wished he had killed Quark when he had the chance. He was under good authority that a broken neck really wasn’t that loud when you were the one experiencing it. 

“Quark,” he ventured. “I think it would indeed be advisable for you to go back to your quarters.”

If Quark became involved, then there would be squealing, and then that racket would attract further unwanted attention.

But evidently, Vandehey wasn’t done with this conversation. “None of this latinum your people use, Quark. But you know, it's funny. Everybody I’ve met here is different. A Gul is a tailor. This jackass," he jerked his head towards Bashir, "is a doctor. They're...decent. At least so far as brutes like them can be. But you, well, you’re the exception.”

Quark took it genially. “Proud to be the exception to every rule. And I'll keep doing my best to be the least decent among us if you all can take this elsewhere. If you want to fight whatever this is out, I really don't care. Just not here.”

“You were a good man on the other side, Quark. You helped others.”

“Yeah, and died for it from what I hear. A real idiot if you ask me.”

Garak's arm was beginning to ache from holding it in a single position for so long. He debated whether it would be worth it to switch the phaser to a light setting and fake accidentally shooting someone in the foot, just to move things along.

Vandehey's expression tightened. There seemed to be something more going on here that Quark was oblivious to.

“And that’s what's wrong with you." With that, the tension seemed to seep from Vandehey's body, jaw and shoulders unclenching. His knife remained out but no longer at the ready.

He continued, “Fine, we’re done here for now. No fun when you keep getting interrupted. Consider it a gift in honor of your better half, Quark. May you get your beauty sleep and have dreams drowning in gold.” He gave a flourish and a mock bow. 

Quark looked mildly insulted at the idea of latinum-less gold, but Vandehey was already moving on, turning his glare back to Bashir.

“But Bashir, you even look her way again, and I’ll kick your teeth out. You hear me?”

Bashir managed to look smug in spite of his painfully swollen face. “I’ll just have to keep my eyes closed next time, then. Won’t be too hard. She wasn’t the easiest on the eyes.”

Vandehey sneered. “I hope you have fun being a Cardie’s fucktoy. Better keep your ass as loose as your mouth or you’re in for a new kind of pain.”

He spat at their feet and swept away down a hall as the other Terrans lifted their stunned companion and followed.

Quark watched them go. “Jeeze, what’s his problem?”

Garak took a deep breath and let it go slowly, noting how Bashir discreetly leaned his weight against the wall as he let himself take a second to absorb what all had just happened.

After a few more seconds of watching where Vandehey and his bunch had disappeared, Quark turned towards them. “That applies to you two as well. I don’t care what you do or where you go, just find somewhere else. I will call Odo if I have to hear another peep through that door.”

He didn’t wait for an answer before leaving. A door down the hall opened and closed, and then they were alone. 

Garak sighed and holstered his weapon.

Bashir glared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have little to no experience writing Quark, Jadzia, and mirror Jadzia so feel free to give concrit! Also, same naming convention as with the Bashirs applies. Unless otherwise noted, such as Smiley vs Chief O’Brien, mirror doubles are referred to by surname and regular versions by their first names.
> 
> Fun paragraph I ended up removing since there was too much going on in the part and the tone didn’t fit. Would’ve been around the part where castration is brought up:  
>  _Garak had heard of the practice before but he only passingly understood it. Julian had once explained it to him after he’d come across the word 'eunuch' in a book they’d been reading. He could have always researched it himself but such things tended to be more worthwhile when he made the doctor take him through it step by step. He’d even managed to convince Julian to draw a diagram of human genitalia on a replimat napkin for him. (Garak still had it.)_


	4. Chapter 4

“I didn’t need your help.”

Bashir pushed off the wall to shove hard at Garak’s shoulder, forcing him to take a step back.

Of course. This was the thanks Garak got for intervening against his better judgement and risking his own life on behalf of a man who didn’t care about him one way or another. Scratch that. There was a good chance that Bashir _did_ care and preferred him dead.

Garak restrained an eye roll. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that you wanted to be beaten to death.”

Bashir took offense at that. His puffy face twisted and his body coiled like an animal ready to strike, muscles tensing and hands curled into fists by his side.

They were alone now, just the two of them. 

If Bashir tried anything, Garak knew he could easily defend himself. He was the one with the phaser after all, not to mention Bashir’s injuries. 

But no matter how he imagined it, the outcome wouldn’t be good. There would be questions. Questions from people like Julian about just what Garak had been doing alone in a corridor with Bashir. He couldn’t imagine the doctor would enjoy patching up his alternate self. 

How easy would it be for Bashir to blame all of his wounds on a Cardassian who was so widely distrusted, not just the ones Garak might cause in self defense. And there was the small detail that Bashir would likely tattle if Garak didn’t comply, didn’t deign to be his perfect little victim. 

No, he’d either need to defuse this with words or resign himself to allowing Bashir to brutalize him for his own amusement. It was nothing Garak hadn’t done before for his own to switch up the monotonous eternity that was exile.

Bashir spat through bared teeth, “Contrary to popular belief, us Terrans aren’t stupid enough to kill each other over personal squabbles. I’d have lived.”

“Yes, as a castrate apparently.” 

“Well, aren’t you all sweet, concerned for my balls. I didn’t realize you’d grown so fond of them so quickly,” Bashir sneered. “But I’m not a damn cripple. I can take care of myself, thank you. And you’d best watch your own back, Cardie. Six of us Terrans and one of you? Even with the phaser.” 

Only now did it truly hit Garak what a blunder he’d made in attempting a rescue. He'd only been thinking of Julian when he had done it, it was true. But there was an assumption there that his actions wouldn't be viewed hostilely by their benefactor. Had he somehow thought that he’d be the hero? That Bashir would be grateful to him?

No, he’d only put himself in danger.

And even then, it was one thing to give Bashir a chance to escape his attackers, but to have allowed him to stand side-by-side with him was a novice’s mistake. Yet again, he’d given this Terran an implicit trust by virtue of sharing a name and face with someone worthy of it. It would’ve been all too easy for Bashir to have disarmed him while he was distracted with the others, and then he’d have been weaponless and cornered. 

Bashir gave him a leering once over. “Let’s just say, I’ve heard some jolly good stories that started that way.”

But even as he slew his taunts, Garak couldn’t help but feel something was wrong here. The tension Bashir held in his body wasn’t that of someone ready to go off like a time bomb but of someone forcing themself to hold still. One of his hands shook ever so subtly. His eyes didn’t seem right. Bashir was blustering. He had to be. Like an injured animal that snapped all the more ferociously to hide its weakness.

And there was another issue for Garak to worry about. He wanted to avoid an altercation with Bashir lest they end up in Julian's care after but that didn't mean Bashir wouldn't end up there regardless.

“Captain,” Garak began, carefully treading the waters. “I’m afraid your injuries may draw some attention from station personnel. They'll ask how you came about them.”

“And I’ll tell them it’s none of their damn business.”

“But that likely won't deter them. They don't like interference between our universes, and they may become concerned that you’ve gotten yourself into trouble with someone from our side and investigate. My point is that I keep various medical supplies in my quarters. We're both aware that I'd rather you stayed away from the good doctor. If you'll accompany me back, I'll heal what I can.”

Bashir crossed his arms, pressing them only lightly against his body as he considered it.

All this waiting around was making Garak anxious. Too likely someone out on a nightly stroll or a security detail might happen by. He added, “Unless you’d prefer your double? I can tell you from experience, he’ll only scold you and act disapproving and then be smug about it afterwards.”

Bashir came to his decision, spitting at the wall before answering. “Fine. I’ll let you give me a patch job. But don’t try anything funny or I will go straight to Doctor Bashir and it won’t be for bandages, you understand?”

Garak stretched a smile across his face and tilted his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Shall we?”

They made their way through the halls, heading back the way Garak had come. By some miracle, they managed to make it to his quarters without encountering a single soul.

Bashir was sullenly quiet as Garak keyed in his entry code. Then the door slid open, and Bashir pushed past him to enter first, making himself at home by immediately heading to the couch at the center of the room and flopping down onto it. 

Garak cringed. At least Bashir had decided to go for the couch instead of installing himself in his bed at the far end of the room, he supposed. Still, the Terran’s nose was still sluggishly dripping blood, and it would only take one swift turn of the head for a droplet to go flying. He hoped he wouldn’t have to have his furniture reupholstered after this. 

Thinking ahead, he locked the door behind them as a precaution in case those unruly Terrans decided to finish what they’d started. 

He called over to Bashir as he manually tapped out the locking code, “Wash before we get started. You don't want to chance having your cuts healed with dirt in them or you'll get an infection.”

There was a sharp laugh in response. “Trying to get me out of my clothes again, Garak?”

Garak raised his eyes to the ceiling, mentally appealing to gods he didn’t believe in to grant him patience. Then he turned to face him.

“If you would prefer that I heal you as is, so that by the time you return to wherever you came from, you’ll have developed an infection and end up losing an arm, then by all means, Captain. It's your body.”

Bashir lifted a disdainful lip, but stiffly stood to grab at the edges of his shirt and pull it over his head anyways.

Garak averted his gaze when he began working on his trousers. Ideally, he would have preferred that the Terran had waited until he was closed away in the fresher to strip, but at least he had been successful in convincing him to wash. It took care of two problems. One, it protected Garak’s furniture and his nose. And two, it would give him time to hide anything not easily replaceable and keep where he kept his tricorder and dermal regenerator from Bashir’s knowledge.

He made his way to the replicator to get some fresh clothes for him. Bashir deserved no better than to wear the ostentatious cookie-cutter garbage that was programmed into the machine. After the new clothing appeared, he dawdled, not wanting to deal with the sight of Bashir’s nude body, and decided to replicate a towel as well rather than let him use one of his own.

He called over, “The shower is fitted with both water and sonic capabilities. You’ll want to use the water setting. You are familiar with how to use the facilities, I presume?” 

Garak hoped so. There was only too real a chance that Bashir had never so much as had a true bath or shower in his life, had only ever relieved himself in corners, and had never heard of the concept of hand washing. With so many misplaced Terrans around, Garak could just imagine some poor Promenade custodian busy cleaning up messes in alcoves.

Bashir seemed to know what he was thinking. “Do I look like a hound to you? Yes, I know how to fucking shower. Not all of us can get a spa treatment after work everyday, princess.”

Garak bit back several comments expressing his doubts. Instead, he gathered up the clothes and bit the bullet, turning around to face Bashir. He immediately felt relieved. The couch was still between them and covered everything from just above his navel down. It was the small mercies.

“But,” Bashir added, knitting his brows and sticking his bottom lip out into as much of an exaggerated pout as he could manage with a swollen face. (Instead of the mockingly pitiful look he was likely going for, it simply looked grotesque.) “Maybe you should show me just in case? These Federation showers could be very different. You should probably help me wash, Mr Garak. Please?”

Garak threw the clothes and towel at him and Bashir caught them easily. “The sooner you finish washing, the sooner we can get you fixed up and this will be over.”

“Damn right.”

Bashir turned and made his way to the fresher, and Garak let himself look for a brief second. The picture wasn’t a pretty one. Bruises over old scarring and a smattering of encrusted dark hair crawling up onto his lower back.

Then the door slid shut and Garak was left on his own.

Garak got to work immediately. First, he pulled out the medical tricorder and dermal regenerator, leaving them on the table before making a quick search of his quarters and stowing away what few irreplaceable items he had for safe keeping. He kept an ear on the fresher all the while, noting the sounds of running water that came from within. 

After minimal debate, he decided to reclamate Bashir’s old clothes as well. He picked them off the floor and pushed down his revulsion at their grease and grit before reluctantly digging through the pockets to save anything Bashir might have been carrying with him. There he found a strip of latinum, a few unidentifiable coins, a holo-ID for a Vulcan called Sullak, a Klingon toothpick (which bore resemblance to and was easily mistakable for a very small pocketknife), and an unidentifiable fuzzy ball of...something. Not a tribble.

He set them in a pile on the table and rid the world of the travesty that was Bashir’s clothing forever.

When Bashir finally emerged nearly three quarters of an hour later, Garak was ready and waiting for him. He finished his sip of tea and turned, only to nearly spit it out again.

Bashir had apparently elected to not dress in the replicated outfit. Instead, he strut proudly back to couch, nude body fully on display, and plopped back down.

Garak reigned in a sharp comment and placated himself with the reasoning that it would be easier to spot any visible wounds this way. And at least, Bashir had dried himself enough so that he wasn’t dripping on the carpet.

“I see you went through my stuff,” Bashir commented without glancing back.

Garak collected his supplies from off the table. “Oh? I thought perhaps the idea of personal property might not exist where you’re from. After all, how else am I to explain the things you took the last time you were here?”

“S’what happens when you leave your stuff unattended.”

“Then we understand each other perfectly.”

Garak brought the medical supplies to the couch and laid them out on the cushion next to Bashir, choosing to stand over him to perform his work. He picked up the tricorder and ran it over him.

“Mm. Those pills didn’t even do anything. At least not for humans and Trills.”

“I imagine they wouldn’t. Not unless you’re prone to headaches. If you want drugs, speak to Quark.”

“Pft. Still can’t believe that little Ferengi is out here scamming people and smuggling contraband. All I ever hear of him is how pure hearted and kind the little slug was. Too good for this world,” he mocked.

“Yes, it is hard to believe,” Garak agreed absently. 

He was much more concerned with cataloging the injuries in front of him than participating in any further conversation Bashir might provide.

The swelling of his cheek had only gotten worse in the time since the attack, and in addition to it, Garak now noticed that his neck looked mildly inflamed. At least his nose had stopped bleeding. Though with this closer inspection, it was clear some of the bleeding and swelling was from a split lip. His torso didn’t fare much better. It was spotted in discolored marks that would no doubt look much worse once true bruising set in.

The thought gave Garak pause. He couldn't see Bashir’s back right now but he clearly remembered seeing a patchwork of bruises there when he’d been turned away. Had those been there last night? 

He didn’t think so but it was hard to say. His face had been buried in the mattress most of the time.

On Bashir's lower half, he gave a rudimentary visual sweep, refusing to note anything there more than medically necessary. And of that, there wasn’t much. A small litany of what were clearly much older scrapes and cuts not important to Garak’s current task and some bruising around the ankle.

Beyond his injuries, Garak was pleased to find that Bashir was indeed clean now. The smell was almost entirely gone, only his rancid breath remaining. His hair had been washed as well, though it seemed Garak’s shampoo had only managed to frizz it into an even more unmanageable mess. It would need to be cut at some point to take care of that or an appointment arranged with—

The tricorder finished its scan with a beep.

Garak interpreted the results aloud, “Contusions on the windpipe, face, chest, abdomen, and right ankle. No internal bleeding or damage. Nothing broken. You’re very lucky. I should be able to take care of just about everything.”

“Great. Can we get on with it then? It’s hot as balls in here.”

Garak stretched a tight smile across his face. “It would be my delight.”

He put aside the tricorder and picked up the dermal regenerator, eyeing Bashir’s lean form with a critical eye. 

It was difficult to say just how much his body could stand to be repaired in one go. Normally, this level of injury could be repaired in a single exhausting session, but Bashir likely suffered from chronic malnutrition and perhaps starvation. Not to mention that he’d probably never had such a device used on him before either. It was always harder on a body when it hadn’t yet learned to adapt and reallocate resources appropriately with regenerator use.

Garak began at the neck, figuring that was the most immediately dangerous injury.

Bashir stayed still for it but let his eyes wander about the room bored. “So,” he said conversationally, “Are you a crossdresser?”

Garak gritted his teeth. “And where does that question come from?”

“Just curious.” There was a pause and then he added, “You have that blue makeup stuff in your sink cabinet. I’ve only ever seen it worn by females of your kind. And I _know_ you don’t have a girl. So, I thought, maybe you played at being one.”

“For your information, that blue stuff may be worn by any Cardassian. Not that such matters would be your business anyhow.”

“Oh. Shame. I was kinda hoping.” Bashir winked.

Garak didn’t bother responding to that. He had no doubt the Terran only wanted to rile him up.

Soon enough, the regenerator’s colors blinked to let him know it was finished in that area and Garak moved on to his face. 

Sensing that Bashir was feeling emboldened by having his undivided attention, Garak cut him off before he got the chance to speak again. “You’ll need to stay as still as possible for this next part or your face will end up permanently disfigured,” Garak lied. And then for good measure, he added, “That means no talking.”

Surprisingly enough, Bashir obeyed and was silent all the while, not a glance or a word shared between them. By the time Garak finished on his face, the Terran looked solemn and contemplative, staring into the distance. He moved onto the ankle and then the chest. 

It was strange. Garak didn’t think he’d ever gone this long in Bashir’s presence without some sort of remark. He looked up at his face. Bashir was clammy, blinking heavily with glassy eyes as he stared at some indecipherable point.

Garak stood straight up, worry shooting to his gut.

“Captain Bashir? Bashir!” 

He flicked at an ear and Bashir turned to him, looking confused.

“How are you feeling right now?” Garak asked.

Bashir furrowed his brows and murmured, “I...don’t know. Strange. Did you drug me? You stupid shit, I never said you could drug me...”

Garak suppressed an eye roll. “I didn’t drug you. It’s the dermal regenerator. Your body either isn’t used to reallocating resources this way or doesn’t have enough.”

He got no response, only a confused stare.

This wasn’t good at all. He didn’t want to have to spend any more time than necessary in Bashir’s company but he couldn’t very well send him out again this way. Most likely, he’d end up picked up by Odo, perhaps after running into Vandehey and his troupe again, and then Garak would truly be taking the blame for his state. 

Garak sighed, resigning himself to playing the good host. “We’ve done enough for tonight. You’ll need food, water, and rest.”

Bashir opened his mouth like he was about to say something and then floundered, looking like a fish for several seconds before closing it again.

Garak stood, leaving Bashir to his stupor, and replicated a glass of water and a bowl of Terran soup. It wasn’t as rich as he might’ve liked to give for the purpose of refueling him, but Garak wasn’t sure what sorts of food his stomach was accustomed to handling.

He brought them back and pushed them into Bashir’s hands. 

“You need to eat,” Garak reminded him when he received a blank look in return.

Bashir's hand shook as he took a single sluggish bite but then something in his mind seemed to switch. He finished off the bowl and the water ravenously if not inelegantly. By the time his second bowl was being taken away, Bashir blinked heavy eyes up at him, looking much clearer and also exhausted.

Garak placed the dishes in the reclamator before making his way to the fresher. He sighed at the puddle of water on the floor but ignored it in favor of retrieving Bashir’s new clothing.

Bashir didn’t even fight him on it when they were handed to him. Merely took them and slowly but painfully dressed.

While he did that, Garak went about replicating a fresh blanket and pillow. 

“You'll need to rest here for the night. We can re-evaluate your condition in the morning.”

He didn’t receive an answer. Bashir was certainly more alert now, but he still seemed not quite right. Hopefully, rest would reset him.

Garak returned to give them to him, only for a hand to clumsily reach for his waistband. He slapped it away.

“Captain Bashir!”

Bashir looked up at him from where he sat on the couch, startled. He stuttered out, “I, I thought— But—” 

“Well, you clearly thought wrong. I wouldn’t have you again if we were the last two people in the quadrant.”

But instead of being enraged or insulted, Bashir’s face cleared and the usual smug smile began to pull at the edges of his lips. 

“Oh, right. Because I have one on you. You can’t let your little Doctor Bashir know,” he said in a sneering slur.

In a flash of clarity, Garak understood. Bashir, muddled brain forgetting what he had over him, had been under the impression that Garak’s help came with a price.

It should, really. Not in exchange for sexual favors but information, bribery, a task to be completed at a later date. It was true that Bashir was the one in a place of power here and that doing this kept him away from Julian, but the fact that Garak hadn’t even thought to consider it spoke volumes. Just how far had he fallen that he’d been willing to offer assistance completely free? Or was it merely because it had been Julian Bashir's swollen face looking back at him?

He was losing his touch, making mistakes left and right. This couldn't be allowed to continue.

Bashir grabbed the bedding from his hands, throwing the pillow to one couch end and nearly hitting Garak in the face as he shook the blanket out in one go before covering himself and almost falling off the side in his attempt to lay down.

“Well, thank you then, Mr Garak. Let me know if you get cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fun fact: This chapter and the two before it where all originally supposed to be one chapter. But together they're over 10k and I can't really handle more than 3k at once usually, so expect that chapter count to climb 😬
> 
> The idea that the dermal regenerator can only be used so much at a time, pulls resources from the body, and exhausts you comes from pyrrhic-victory and their fic ['a small white room'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23504659/chapters/56364853). I just love all the great plot potential that adding a limitation to Trek’s medical abilities has.
> 
> I'm posting this a week earlier than usual because next Thursday is October 1st and I'm trying my hand at Kinktober this year! As such, it'll also be a bit longer till this is updated again. Probably November 12-ish.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nov 12th...Jan 15th. Same difference, right? Hoping to get on a monthly schedule again for this.

Garak glared at the form stretched out across his couch.

This was his punishment for his recklessness. The price for putting himself in a vulnerable position multiple times over, always because of who this man could've been. Now, not only was he sentenced to live under the anxiety of the _truth_ , the wretched abomination, coming out of her well, but he was also saddled with Bashir’s well-being at the cost of his own.

For as pleasant and tempting as Garak's own bed looked where it sat across the room, he could hardly risk sleeping with Bashir around. That the Terran was thoroughly weakened and would almost certainly be out for several hours more didn’t matter. He had proven many times over that he was not Julian and therefore deserving of the same distrust as everyone else. And between a disdain for Cardassians and the fear that he’d been drugged, there was a very real chance that he’d try to slit Garak’s throat if he woke while Garak was off guard.

No, he’d need to be vigilant.

The price of which would almost certainly be a day filled with headaches, fatigue, and body aches. Such was the toll of exile. There had once been a time that Garak had been able to stay awake for days at time as missions required. He’d never gotten a full night's sleep back then, always transmissions to decode, people to follow, bugs to place.

But he’d fallen out of practice in recent years. Following the incident with wire, he’d found himself constantly exhausted and under Julian’s careful dictating watch. It had been all too tempting to please Julian by following his orders to rest and let himself fall into the unfortunate habit of a regular bedtime and regular waking hour. 

The unfortunate consequences of that had not only been a predictable schedule that could be used against him but a body that betrayed him by latching onto the routine. Whether it was due to years of self abuse or simply the woes of age, it fought any deviation. Even an hour of sleep lost was enough to give him a headache and put him in a foul mood.

Simply yet another way that he’d let himself go, losing control of his life and growing soft and spoiled when he should’ve been keeping himself in top shape to take advantage of the next chance to return home. 

But tonight, it seemed, would be a lesson in discipline and self control. Not only would he need to stay awake and suffer the effects without the help of medication, but he’d have to battle the urge to smother Bashir then and there for all the trouble he’d caused him.

It would be so easy. A weakened victim and no one around to see or hear a struggle. 

The aftermath wouldn’t be worth it, of course. No doubt he’d be found out if he succeeded. And as much as Garak hated to admit it, there was that question of _if._

When push came to shove, when he heard the desperate gasps for air and muffled shouts, would he falter? Would the part of him that couldn’t seem to disentangle the two Julian Bashirs circumvent his efforts to bring forth the worst outcome of all; a botched murder and an incensed Captain Bashir?

Garak couldn’t let himself travel down that line of thought any further. 

He abandoned his tea and stood from his chair, finding what he could to distract himself. There wasn’t much. The habit of keeping his rooms tidy was well ingrained in him from childhood and after cleaning up the fresher from Bashir’s use and taking stock in case of missing items, he was done.

A part of Garak mourned that he’d elected not to take any work home with him tonight. He could’ve gotten a head start on the Jadzias’ rush order rather than having to push through on it tomorrow when he would be at the full height of his sleepless misery.

He settled for research instead. The more he learned about this so-called ‘mirror universe’ and its inhabitants, the better. And if while doing so, he could glean just what it was about the fallen Terran Empire that upset Julian so much, then all the better.

Garak replicated himself a fresh cup of tea and then got to work. For the most part, information on the topic found on the public databases and even the restricted Starfleet ones was scarce, centered around an encounter a century earlier with Julian’s adventure only mentioned in passing.

The specifics were vague where they were not outright nonexistent, and the broader story was one Garak was already well familiar with.

At some point, human history diverged in two. One had grown into the smug benefactors of Garak’s current existence and Julian’s eventual progenitors. The other, taking the bloodier and more interesting path, established themselves as the Terran Empire before spreading themselves thin while taking on a number of ill-planned reforms all at once. The peoples under them rose up, the script was flipped, and the Terrans became a conquered people.

Overall, a rather uninspired tale.

If he had to guess, and Garak hated guessing, it was the existence of the Empire itself that agitated Julian so. It seemed to be an antithesis of all Federation values, and that his people could in equal possibility have become so ruthless, much less some other version of himself, probably felt like some sort of attack on Julian's idea of the self. (Garak dared not to linger long on fantasies of what a Julian Bashir at the Empire’s height have been like to encounter.) 

There was some poorly informed idea of progression that the Federation seemed fond of spreading. That it was a natural order of things for the bloodthirsty animal to become the conflicted sentient, wrestling with baser instincts to become a docile and intelligent creature, and then working its way to become something _more._ Implied, of course, was that the Federation was that 'more' or very near it.

Cardassians knew better. A single being or even collection of beings could never be more than the animals they were, complex biochemistry living out their preprogrammed existence only to eventually return to dirt. The only more that there was was that which was greater than flesh; Cardassia herself.

But that was a line of thought to be saved for later, when Julian would be there to argue it out with him.

In the meantime, Garak was left with more time than he wanted. 

He ignored the stabs of a headache banding across his brain and instead let himself follow where the databases would take him, travelling file to file through Terran history and pondering just where the split might’ve been. 

Certainly, it had to be prior to the 22nd century and the Federation’s creation, but without knowing even the most basic of the other Earth’s history, it was impossible to tell.

The night wore on, and Garak finished his tea and then another. He bided his time tediously, mood growing sour by the minute as pain lanced through his head and stole his focus. 

If that wasn’t bad enough, he was constantly on edge. Bashir’s presence fueled his anxiety and he was regularly reminded of it by the sounds of a deep sleep coming from the sofa.

Briefly, he considered bothering Quark for some relief once the bar opened for the day. Garak had only recently gotten the prescription for his headache medication refilled, and Julian would be automatically notified the next time he went for more. There would be questions, and he would rather answer those after the uncontrolled variable that was Bashir was safely off the station. If he wanted more any time soon, it’d need to be obtained under the table.

The only question was whether Quark would even have something so lightweight. The ease with which one could get the sorts of light pain relievers Garak had had were so easy to obtain from the infirmary, it would simply be a waste of time and money to go to Quark for most.

More likely, he would be offered another variety of painkiller; one that tempted him less frequently than it once had but still tempted nonetheless.

Did he want to test that resolve when Quark no doubt offered it to him, looking to make a tidier profit than he would from what Garak was actually looking for? No, it was best to suffer it out. Besides, it would help teach himself a lesson about the consequences of growing complacent. He deserved this punishment.

Soon enough, the tea made its rounds and Garak was forced to visit the fresher to relieve himself. On the way back, he paused by the couch. 

The last time he’d seen Julian asleep was years ago, during the incident with Dukat and Pa’Dar, but the image was imprinted on his mind nonetheless; that face, so frequently stretched into a grin or crunched to form a look of contemplation, finally relaxed and at ease; the weight of gravity and lack of muscles forcing it rigid letting it droop into a look far from cerebral.

Bashir’s was much the same. Exhaustion had wilted his scowls and sneers into a familiar slack jawed visage. There were still differences making it unmistakable who this man was not, but now they looked more like a bad costume than anything else.

Garak withheld the urge to brush back the hair from his face. This wasn’t who he wanted it to be and his touch would surely be unwelcome if Bashir had any awareness of his surroundings.

Instead, Garak replicated himself a meal and sat back at the table, itching for something to do. Once upon a time, there had been no shortage of tasks that had required his immediate attention but now without his sewing, he was lost. Any job he set himself to was for his amusement alone and more often than not, they felt empty without that higher cause to serve.

Eventually, he settled for occupying his time by flipping through the station’s online catalog of books for something to read. Julian hadn’t had the chance to give him anything new during their last lunch—not that they’d had the chance to even truly discuss their latest read—and so it was up to Garak to sort through the unappetizing mess of Federation and Bajoran dogma. He ended up on a lengthy tome documenting the history of the Romulans, from the Sundering on.

Time passed slowly. 

Focusing on words was an agonizing endeavor. His head felt like it was full of hot wires that sparked every time he tried to concentrate, and he frequently needed to re-read the same passages several times over, attention drifting like waves. It felt like he’d barely made a nick in the book before he finally deemed it time to shut off the padd and return his numerous empty mugs to the replicator.

The time was 0600. In not too long, the shifts would change and the station’s artificial day would begin and then there would be people out and about. Too many for Garak’s taste that could so easily just happen to walk past when Bashir finally decided to wake up and leave.

Surely, Bashir had slept enough? Or at least, enough that he could be trusted to find his own quarters. What a gift that would be; a severely exhausted Bashir bedridden for the rest of the Terran’s stay.

There was also another, more vengeful part of him that very simply delighted in the idea of disturbing such a peaceful sleep. Rest was a luxury after all, and it was one Garak himself didn’t have the pleasure of entertaining, all due to this miscreant’s fault. It was all too easy to indulge the wicked little voice.

Garak stood from the table and circled back around to the front of the couch. He wasted no time giving Bashir’s shoulder a rough shake and when that earned him only a snort and a slight shift, jabbing his knuckles into Bashir’s sternum and swiveling his wrist.

Bashir woke with a flailing jolt and yowled profanity. He made a wild swing in Garak’s direction which was easily dodged. His eyes darted wildly about the room before he calmed, rubbing his chest and glaring Garak’s way.

”There’s a lot more pleasant ways to be woken up, you know. I wouldn’t have minded a little kiss.”

He sat up and stretched, arms above his head and blanket falling to the wayside, before he let his legs splay and added, “Or y’know, a _big_ kiss.”

Garak watched him impassively. “If you’re making those sorts of propositions, then you must be feeling much better. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding your way back to your own accommodations.”

“Kicking me out already? You wouldn’t let the man who just stayed the night go hungry, would you, Mr Garak?”

Garak had actually intended to give Bashir something to eat and a quick review of his injuries before sending him out again—it wouldn’t do for something to be missed and this entire disastrous encounter to be for naught—but now there was a very real temptation in throwing the Terran out on his rear.

“With comments like those, I most certainly would.”

Bashir rubbed a hand over his stubbled cheek, looking bedraggled and still rather tired.

“Cardassian manners, I see. Well, I’m sure you can spare one of your replicator credits to feed a poor, starving Terran regardless. In the meantime, I need to take a piss.”

Bashir threw the blanket to the side, muttering about the heat and sleeping nude next time as he wobbled over to the fresher in a way that spoke to the truth of his need. 

Garak turned away, scowling inside as he made his way to the replicator. It wasn’t worth fighting something that had been his intention anyways. He just hoped that Bashir could be convinced to leave right away after all was said and done.

He absently flicked through the replicator menu for something Terran. Somewhere behind him, there was the sound of trickling water, informing him that Bashir had failed to close the fresher door. Garak gritted his teeth. He always left the fresher panel set to automatically shut. 

As he watched a bowl of oatmeal materialize, the stream finally stopped and then the waste unit ran. He noted the lack of a sink as he set the bowl down on the table and Bashir finally came out, adjusting the crotch of his pants with a hand.

Garak moved away to take care of the linens on the couch as he sat. 

“What? Not going to keep me company?” Bashir called over.

Garak answered in a lighter tone than he felt, “Not when there’s work to be done.”

He refused to break bread with the Terran. Instead, he picked up the blanket and began folding it, noting the scent of fresh musk on it. Evidently, the combination of layers and heat had been too much for Bashir’s body overnight.

There was an awful noise behind him as the bowl was dragged across the table. A spoon plopped in and then the mush was swirled around.

“The hell is this? This supposed to be my bowl?”

Garak sighed and turned around. Yes, it was the bowl he had just replicated, the only one on the table, Terran oatmeal and all. Bashir looked thoroughly disgusted by it.

“That is Terran oatmeal, isn’t it?” It was possible there was something wrong with the replicator file. It would explain Garak’s poor experience with the food.

“How would I know?”

Garak looked at him blankly, mind chugging sluggishly along. Clearly, there was something he was missing here.

“Well, forgive me for assuming that you might like a taste of home,” he settled on.

Bashir gave him a nasty look. “I’ve never been to Earth, you dolt. Did they carve out your brain too when they took that chunk out of your face? They don’t exactly go around serving food from across the quadrant when they’ve got you crushing rocks.”

“My apologies then, for assuming an Earthman might be from Earth.”

“Oh well, in that case, I forgive you. We all make mistakes,” Bashir sneered.

Garak continued to watch him out of the corner of his eye, finishing with the blanket and setting it and the pillow at one end of the couch to be reclamated later.

Bashir brought the spoon hesitantly to his lips and took a taste. He made a face. “Tastes like shit too. I’ve eaten dirt with more flavor than this.”

And yet, despite the comment and his clear disgust, Bashir took another scoop and shoved it into his mouth. If it was that bad, Garak could easily replicate something else for him if requested. He chose not to comment.

Instead, he sat on the couch and pulled out a padd, determined to read (or maybe just play a simple game) and ignore Bashir, lest his headache get any worse. 

“That doesn’t look like work.” 

The voice grated on his nerves.

“I wouldn’t expect you to know what the bookkeeping of a tailor’s shop looks like.”

“Well, surely you can give a lonely man some company and do your bookkeeping over here. You’re a terrible host.”

And then, of all foolish things he’d done already, Garak let his temper flare and take hold of his tongue. “To a parasite such as yourself, certainly. You can be assured guests receive far better.”

He immediately regretted it.

Bashir put his spoon down with a clack.

“Oh, I am sorry, Mr Garak. Here I remember being _invited_ over to your quarters for a bit of fixing up and then being forced to stay the night after you did whatever that was to me. I didn’t mean to intrude on your good will. Perhaps I should've kept stumbling around the station last night until security found me and Doctor Bashir was called in for a patch up. Because that was what you were afraid of, wasn’t it? Me and him being in the same room, spilling the beans. Well, perhaps you should’ve thought of that before you went around thinking with your dick instead of whatever's left in that concave skull of yours. But what more can you expect from a Cardie? Now, you can treat me with some basic hospitality, get yourself something to eat, and sit your fat arse down in that chair or you can say goodbye to your sad little pursuit of Doctor Bashir.”

Garak remained seated stiffly where he was, heart beating hard in his ears as he desperately sought an answer to this situation other than following through on Bashir’s demand. It didn’t set a good precedent.

“I’m waiting.”

Seeing no way out, he stood and made his way tersely to the replicator, pressing a couple buttons to re-order the last replicated item in a half serving. He wasn't a fan of the Terran slop himself but it was better than Bashir learning anything more about him.

He took hold of the hot bowl and sat across from Bashir, swirling his spoon around to release some of the heat as he fervently avoided eye contact. His distress at the situation made itself known in a fuzzy buzzing throughout his limbs and the lurking beginnings of nausea flavoring his saliva.

The next couple minutes were held in awkward silence, Garak mechanically putting the food in his mouth and forcing himself to swallow as Bashir did the same.

Out of nowhere, Bashir said, “If you can just replicate clothes and anything else at will, why sew them? If the Bajorans here are anything like the Terrans back home, I can't imagine anyone buying from you anyways. I wouldn’t.”

Garak looked up and assessed the man across from him. It seemed to be a genuine question.

He held back the urge to make a nasty comment about Bashir and fashion sense, instead answering carefully, keeping his audience in mind. “It’s a matter of wants and needs. Sure, a hastily replicated and poorly fitted outfit may serve you as long as it can, but is it comfortable? Does it fit your personal style? When one finds themself in the position of being able to have better, then one finds themself wanting better. I find that and my personal charm are enough to draw in customers, though the living is sparse.”

He gestured to his small, one room quarters for effect.

“Hrm,” Bashir grunted in response.

The silence resumed for the rest of the meal, albeit somewhat more relaxed this time around. Garak finished first and picked up the dermal regenerator, fiddling with its settings as he waited for Bashir to do the same. There shouldn't be much left for him to heal. He’d gotten the vast majority done the night before but there were still a few spots that needed finishing on Bashir’s torso.

Finally, Bashir gave the bowl one last scrape with his spoon and pushed it away, wiping his mouth with the back of a sleeve.

Garak stood. “If you still want me to finish with your injuries, I’ll need to ask you remove your shirt.”

Bashir continued his long standing tradition of trying Garak's patience by giving him a flirtatious look. “Why Mr Garak! Always trying to get me out of my clothes. It’s alright, doll. I’d take it all off for you.” 

“Just your shirt will do.”

Garak sent thanks to his non-existent gods that Bashir decided to follow the directions precisely instead of stripping nude again just to spite him.

Once the garment had been tugged over his head, Garak observed the damage. Bashir's torso had indeed bruised further over the night, blacks and blues blooming all across his chest and down to his stomach, wrapping around to his back. It wasn’t a pleasant sight but if it pained him at all, the Terran hid it well.

He stood over Bashir, beginning his work from back to front.

“If you’re a tailor, why do you know how to use this...thing...?”

There was an Earth saying Julian had once told him about clouds and silver linings. If knowing that Bashir wasn't currently about to pass out at any second was the silver lining to his inability to silence himself for more than a minute at a time, it was an infinitesimally small one.

“I prick a lot of fingers.” Short and sweet. Conversation to a minimum.

“Well, maybe I prick a lot of fingers too. Show me how.”

“Why?” Garak asked sharply, pausing from his work to look up. “You clearly don’t have access to dermal regenerators where you’re from, and you’re not getting this one.”

“You don't know that and I don't need to. Besides, this way I can avoid the infirmary in the future without needing to partake of your good ‘hospitality'."

He had a point there. One that the tailor couldn't simply ignore.

Garak sighed, turning off the device and slapping it into Bashir’s waiting hand. He hovered over his shoulder as he directed him.

“Point this end at your target. Holding it closer focuses it on a smaller range and provides faster treatment. Farther away affects a broader area but works slower. It can work up to a range of about two feet.”

Garak pointed to the front panel.

“This button will turn it on.”

Bashir pressed it, and Garak continued on a lengthy explanation of how to work it on different types of tissue damage, its limits on especially deep wounds, the importance of disinfecting, how to know when it had finished, and why it sometimes required multiple sessions to repair more severe damage.

“A child’s toy really,” he finished, feeling drained by the endeavor. At least this trial of endurance was almost over. Bashir's injuries had been repaired and he would soon be on his way.

“You’re a bad doctor, Mr Garak,” Bashir replied with a coquettish air, smile tugging at the edges of his lips that was all too reminiscent of Julian. “Just going to rush me through it like that? Not paying attention at all to how I was taking it? If that's what you're like trying to help a poor wounded man, I can only imagine what you're like when giving it to one up the—"

Garak interrupted, “I hadn’t thought it would take more than a single run. Evidently, you’re much more frail than I had initially suspected.”

And that had been the wrong thing to say because Bashir dropped all flirtatious pretense and jumped to his feet, grabbing hold of the front of Garak's tunic. He shoved his face in close, their noses brushing and his rancid breath filling the air between them. “Why don't you tell me how frail I am when I break both your legs?”

If Bashir tried, the Terran would never get that far before Garak permanently concussed him and found a way to blame it on their other visitors.

“My apologies," he demured. His tongue felt thick in his fatigue. "A poor choice of wording. I only meant to say your body was under prepared for the strain of such an unforgiving device. I myself have found myself hindered under its tyranny many a time.”

“I’m sure that was it, spoonhead.” Bashir released him, back to his usual contemptuous snarl.

Garak tugged his tunic to straighten it. Not that it mattered much. He was still wearing the same outfit from the day before and would need to change before he headed out to the shop.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll want your items back before you go on your way.” He gestured to where they were still sitting in a pile at the edge of the table.

Bashir went over to them, picking through the bunch piece by piece.

“You can be assured that they’re all there despite being left unattended,” Garak said pointedly.

Bashir grunted in response and began shoving them into his new pockets. Once he was finished putting himself together, he ran fingers through his overfluffed hair and glanced about the room. “Well, I think that’s it. I wish I could say I had a wonderful time, Mr Garak. You may be a fair fuck but you're an awful host.”

"So, I've been told."

Once Garak had finally shooed him out the door and firmly re-entered his lock code, he sighed in relief and gave his bed a longing look before steeling his resolve to get on with his day as usual. It was earlier than he might normally be up and about but with the siren’s call of sleep so near, he needed out of these quarters. If he managed to talk himself into a nap now, he knew that he'd never get up in time to open shop.

With a spark of dread, he belatedly realized that today was his usual morning for breakfast with Odo. He could just imagine the Changeling's stare, assessing him and his weaknesses as Garak was forced to carry on a conversation like he wasn't in pain and ready to pass out in his rokassa juice.

He'd skip it and claim he forgot, Garak decided. 

Odo wouldn't believe it for a moment and no doubt would visit the shop to ask after him, but he could hardly call foul when Garak had otherwise always been punctual. These things happened sometimes. Even if Odo still decided to interrogate him then and there, he could at least claim he was swamped with work and chase him out with accusations of loitering.

That plan in mind, he began to get ready for the long day ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned next time for an Odo appearance and a visit from Julian ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to The Beatles' song of the same name. This bit from it in particular reminds me of mirrorverse:  
>  _Looking through the bent-backed tulips / To see how the other half live / Looking through a glass onion_
> 
> I try to make it clear which Julian Bashir I’m referring to through context, but to be clear: any variation of Doctor Bashir or Julian refers to the Julian we all know and love. Any variation of Captain Bashir or Bashir refers to the mirror universe counterpart. Please, let me know if there's ever any points of confusion in the story!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you guys think! Kudos and comments are love!


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